


Monarch

by likeamadonna



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-03 21:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11540760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeamadonna/pseuds/likeamadonna
Summary: Troubled by a romantic encounter with The Edge, Bono takes a drive along one of America's blandest interstates and enjoys a whole lot of me-time. Set in September 2002.





	1. Sox/Quilt/Plum

**Author's Note:**

> Monarch was my first foray into Bono/Edge slash, or Bedge for all you little leaguers out there. It takes place in late summer 2002, but I wrote it about five months before that, back when we learned that Bono was going to appear on _Oprah_ in the near future. This, for some reason, inspired me, and I predicted that he would not be a good interview. In reality, he charmed the pants off everyone who watched the show. Obviously.
> 
> Consider yourselves warned: Bono wants to be bored for several days, and he has a voice-activated MP3 recorder on his person. Everything here is a transcription of what was on that device. It is also a record of me trying to pin down my version of his character/voice. Monarch is a one-off story that does not hang with the rest of my work. Immediately after I finished this, I began writing the Close series, and that’s when my Bedge universe officially began.
> 
> Rated PG-13 for some typical Bono cursing, mildly sexy thoughts about one’s best friend that do not even begin until, like, the end of chapter three, and my own insane thesaurus abuse. 
> 
> Note: the original ending has been bugging me for fifteen years, and I’m going to alter it just a SPECK because I can. Monarch was originally divided into fourteen chapters (most of which I wrote in a single night), but I’m consolidating those into five big ones here.
> 
> Extra special thanks to @anidada and @jigofspite for rescuing this story from oblivion and sending it to me! I seriously thought this thing was gone forever. Now all of my stories are under one roof once again, and after reading and occasionally wincing at this one last night for the first time in fifteen years, I’m happy to share Monarch with you. 
> 
> Take it away, B. <3

**Chapter 1: Sox.**

Is this thing on? Wait...yes it is. Oh, it's voice-activated, now I see. Edge, you'd appreciate this: a brand new Olympus DM-1 voice and MP3 recorder with 'WOW technology' whatever that is, with lots of tiny batteries. And no, I did not bother to read the manual.

On this space-age instrument, I plan to record my numerous witticisms as I journey west. I don't care how misguided everyone thinks I am. Paul knows. Ali knows. They don't like it, but they're indulging me. I've decided to play my grown man card and I'm simply going. Larry has his motorcycle; I have this nondescript...I believe it is some kind of Pontiac product.

You must have seen the interview by now, although you would be one of a select few. Apparently yesterday's ratings were abysmal. All those months of trying to get on her program, and what did I do? I sat there rattling off the same depressing statistics I've presented on countless other occasions, completely robotic and devoid of anything approaching charm. The footage of my Africa tour with Paul O'Neill in May was numbingly bleak and not the light daytime banter people expected. The women in her audience, her disciples in their secretarial uniforms festooned with scarves and gaily colored pins: one by one I watched their eyes glaze over. Debt relief, poverty, starvation, forty million people with AIDS, gloomy data presented by some pasty, alleged celebrity pontificating while looking ghoulish and old...what could I have been thinking? The sunglasses covered a multitude of sins, but they kept me at a distance. Black leather was also a mistake. It looked green on the monitors. And dear God, I've lost all definition between my jawline and neck. Why didn't you tell me I was becoming so...doughy? Ms. Winfrey did the best she could with me, and I scored one or two points by kissing her hand, but it was a train wreck from start to finish. We didn't even have a new album to plug. My fault as well.

No wonder I can't write these days. I very much doubt that any good pop songs were composed in the United States Capitol building. Middle-aged legislators do not inspire exaltation, joy, and certainly not lust. Rebellion, maybe. You've all been saying I need to slow down and take some time to rest. It has been months since I've had any kind of solitude. And now I'm dealing with this new bewilderment. You know what I'm talking about.

Yesterday I asked a cameraman to name the most lackluster, tedious stretch of road out of the city. I wanted a mindless void, a straight line west. 'Interstate 80,' he said, claiming that if I drove far enough I'd be able to experience Nebraska 'the hard way.' Apparently even I will find it impossible to get lost. Just stay on the road, follow the sun, aim and shoot.

The man promised me that I could drive the route cloaked in a blessed anonymity that would swell with each passing mile, as I am not a country singer. And nobody saw me on _Oprah_ ; this fact has been established. But just to be on the safe side, he encouraged me to wear the uniform of the proletariat, which is basically ordinary clothing plus a baseball cap. So I bought one. It's a Chicago White Sox hat, which I selected because it is black and the word 'Sox,' with its overlapping letters, kind of looks like 'Sex.' The sunglasses needed to be toned down; no one in Iowa wears Bulgari anymore. So now I am wearing Elvis Costello horn-rims. When I lose those, there will be some spare aviator sunglasses in the glove box.

At the moment I'm parked at a rest area somewhere in central Illinois. The air is a thick, sweet stew of humidity and pollen--the corn is breathing, serenaded by the relentless din of cicadas. The plants are so laden with chlorophyll they're practically black. If this land were human, it would be a thirty-seven year old woman, lying on her back, hot and fertile, at her sexual peak.

I went inside to avail myself of the facilities and purchase some vending machine items. So much for reclaiming my jaw line. What is it with Americans and orange-colored food? Their bottled water tasted vaguely metallic, so I picked a daisy and put the bottle to use as a jaunty car vase. Yes, it's a voyage of self-discovery to be sure, Edge.

If this is to truly work, I'd like to establish a rule. Except for this adorable recorder, I'm denying myself access to technology: radio, cell phone, and television. I will drive in silence. All I will hear will be the sound of the road. And the sound of you laughing at me. I can do this, Edge. All it takes is a little discipline. Hush, you.

 

**Chapter 2: Quilt.**

Edge, I have an update on the car. It is a Pontiac (I guessed correctly) Grand Prix, and I will be referring to it henceforth as the Grand Pricks. That could almost be an American national park. Speaking of phallic majesty, the recorder is sitting on my celebrated lap as I drive, in case you are worried about my safety. Both of my hands are gripping the wheel gently but firmly.

This recorder: I feel I should name it. Why don't I just call it Reg? Perfect. Anyway, Reg is extremely sensitive and I'm sure he is busy documenting all sounds emanating from my pants, along with everything else. Thank you, my small comrade.

These agricultural states are so charming to fly over, as you well know, composed of a delightful patchwork quilt of golds, browns, blacks, and greens. Splendid to view from the air. But to drive through them is another story. This blasted corn is so tall it's like driving through a hallway. Or better yet, each stalk--do you call them stalks?--is a green soldier, and there are billions of them lined up shoulder to shoulder. I am their general, reviewing my battalion as I rocket by with my military cortege. Good day to you, gentlemen!

The monotony of these fields is interrupted periodically by swaths of road construction. And it's a good thing too, because this interstate is in pitiful condition. Baking in the scorching heat, then freezing, thawing, and freezing again in the winter--I might as well be driving on a washboard, or cobblestones. Now that would be quaint: cobblestone interstate highways. The next time I'm in Washington, I'll present a proposal to Norman Mineta. He is the Secretary of Transportation. I know; you hate it when I drop names of bureaucrats. I humbly apologize.

Construction zones can be summed up in two words: orange barrels. And here's some more now. This is truly the middle of nowhere. How do they get all these barrels out here? Are they dropped from the sky? Where do they store the barrels after the work is finished? Okay. Slowing down. Slowing down. Crawling. Wow. This is a scene straight out of _Cool Hand Luke_. I'm in the midst of all these men with backs like roasted turkeys, toiling in the sun. And heavy equipment...it's an asphalt vineyard. And oh, look at her! Excuse me, Edge.

Good morning, my darling! You are a bronze goddess!

...Ahh yes. Now that, Edge, was a woman. This corn-fed, R. Crumb Venus was holding a sign that said 'slow.' (Fine advice.) Poor dear, standing obstinately out there in that blast furnace, décolletage dewy with perspiration, tangled golden hair, doomed skin...I had no choice but to award her with my jaunty car vase. She tucked the daisy behind her ear, took a good long drink, and poured the water down her neck.

Glorious. I am smitten; I am love-struck.

Eyes on the road, Bono. The lack of anything of architectural interest is a wonderful palate-cleanser after the visual assault that was Chicago. These houses: a child could have designed them. All are variations on the triangle-mounting-square theme. The barns are only slightly more risqué, flanked by towering, unabashedly obscene silos. A few looming trees, a dog out in front, all of this surrounded by oceans of sexy black-green. (Maybe yesterday's leather costume was acceptable after all.) My present speed is seventy miles per hour, and this same configuration of farm buildings re-materializes every twenty seconds. I've been on the road for four hours. There, I've given you a satisfying math problem to solve.

Incidentally, I am approaching the Mississippi River, my huckleberry friend. I am going to sing _Moon River_ now. I'll spare you. So how do you turn this thing off?

 

**Chapter 3: Plum.**

I've been following a Plymouth Voyager van for about ten miles now. Someone has inscribed the word "pussy" into the dust on its rear window. In a few moments I plan to pass this vehicle and study the driver to see if, in fact, he or she is a pussy. Such abominable language in fresh-faced Iowa...I weep for the future.

I came dangerously close to pulling off the road a little while ago to stand beside the Mississippi River. I wanted to physically touch it and possibly even drink some of the water to, you know, taste the blues. Unfortunately I-80 became kind of complicated near what they're calling the Quad Cities, a sorry collective of four unremarkable river towns that proves once and for all that there is no such thing as strength in numbers. I missed the exit and was forced to view the river from the bridge. It's for the best, really. The river starts in Minnesota, the least funky state in the union (Prince notwithstanding), and Iowa is not much better. As the river progresses south, however, it picks up the effluvia of the heartland, and the states become increasingly bluesy and even cool. Louisiana would be the best state to taste the blues of the Mississippi. You would most likely die, but you would taste it. In Iowa the river probably tastes like...Perry Como. Yes, I'm babbling, Edge, and what can you do to stop me? Absolutely nothing!

That old man is not a pussy.

............................................................................................................

Edge, I'm in West Branch, Iowa, home of the Herbert Hoover National Historic Site. He was a U.S. president. This is a microscopic village, all dolled-up with hollyhocks and old-fashioned soda fountains, only no one cares. I'm walking the grounds of the site now, and can you hear the teeming masses surrounding me? No. That's because I'm the only person in this great nation who cares enough to investigate this site today. This...cottage, this...shack, no, this _shed_ where Herbert Hoover was born and raised in the searing Iowa heat: it's pathetic. No, it's just plain tragic.

Okay, end of educational side trip. I'm really here to fill the tank with gasoline.

And maybe buy some fruit.

......................................................................................................

Yet another accursed exercise designed to acquaint me with humility... Excuse me?

Yup?

I'm having trouble dispensing gasoline.

Yer not from around these parts, are ya? Just flip this up. There ya go.

Marvelous. And how do I know when it's done?

It'll shut off all by itself.

Ohh.

Then you have to go inside and pay the guy.

Thank you, I see. I'll do that! ...(At least I'm taller than you.)

......................................................................................................

Topographically, Iowa has Illinois beat, hands down. The state is one massive, rolling hill after another, American-sized hills. Everything on this road is American-sized. Obese drivers in oversized vans, sport utility vehicles, revolting mega-campers emblazoned with slogans like 'Jack-n-Peg's Wanderlust', and 18-wheeler after 18-wheeler...I don't want to know how many of those I've passed today, although I could provide you with another math problem if I had the inclination to do so. Which I do not. I am road-weary, my dear Edge.

To make matters worse, every two miles my eyes are treated to mileage signs informing me that I am that much closer to Council Bluffs...which is currently 242 miles from here, on the far western outskirts of the state. I checked the map. It is my belief that at some point Iowa had a budget surplus, and to get rid of the extra money, the legislators decided to clog I-80 with unnecessary signage. These signs cause nothing but a genuine hopelessness in the driver, along with the sinking realization that there is no escape from Iowa. I've barely made a dent in this state.

Does anyone drive simple cars anymore? I am in the minority. Many of my neighbors' outsized vehicles sport tattered, faded American flags that flap furiously from radio antennas. Has it really been a year? It seems more like ten. Fragile bodies in rampaging metal eggshells, all of us on our way to Council Bluffs.

................................................................................................

Oh, she is mine! I do believe a young woman is flirting with me, Edge. The kind of girl Tom Petty sings about...she passed me with undue sluggishness, sucking some fluid from a straw, and once she caught my attention she smiled and tossed her hair. Then she proceeded to slide into my lane in front of me. And now it appears that she is slowing down, leaving me no choice but to pass her and up the ante. I need a prop. Ah, here we go. A plum--ha!

I'm beside her now. I'm showing her the plum. I'm kissing said plum! Take that, vixen!

I'd like to see her top that display. She has no idea with whom she is dealing. I'm in front now, gradually slowing down, playing her game...and here she comes to pass me again. Isn't that beguiling? She's singing something, pounding the steering wheel, making wild hand gestures, head thrashing. Rock and roll, sweetheart.

Please, do get in front of me again.

Witnessing the sensual miracle that is Bono Eating Fruit is often more than most young women can bear. They frequently leave the room, blushing, eyes averted, bosoms heaving...I can't do anything to stop it, Edge. I simply possess this erotic capacity. Pardon me; I must eat a plum now...

There. I have won. She is destroyed. I think the true masterstroke was when I hurled the pit out the window and into the fertile topsoil of the median, thus planting a plum tree for future generations of Iowans to treasure. Hold on. I don't believe it. My foolish darling is back for more. She is pointing at me, mouth open in disbelief...her finger traces a smiley curve, and now a backwards number two. Ahh, this girl knows too much. Off with this cap...yes, love, I am he. He who must exit this interstate immediately.

I really should eat something of substance. In taking this exit, it seems that I have stumbled upon the Amana Colonies. Is that some kind of Amish subgroup? I hope so. The Amish are not big U2 fans. "Ronneburg Restaurant--Legendary German Food." With attached souvenir shop...I will buy you something, Edge. That is both a threat and a promise.

......................................................................................................

What, no one eats at 2:30? I am the sole occupant of the Ronneburg dining room. This place is bleak, a low-ceilinged monstrosity with oppressive wooden beams, the walls and furniture enshrouded in various shades of brown and other filthy-looking colors. The air looks smoky but I don't smell smoke. Is it simply...old air? It's the kind of air that exists inside a pharaoh's sarcophagus, hazy and decayed, the kind of atmosphere that surrounds the elderly. I am about to feast on their "world famous" sauerbraten, with a side order of green beans. Even the vegetables in this slaughterhouse appear to be cooked in pure lard. All served by a cheerless mastodon of a woman. You know, Edge, I consider myself to be a...a citizen of the world. How is it that up until this point I knew nothing of Ronneburg sauerbraten? And finally, are you hearing this? As I ingest the carnage on my plate, I'm being serenaded by ABBA.

_Waterloo._

......................................................................................................

I hope you cherish your Iowa souvenirs. I was torn between the teddy bear Statue of Liberty with a tear in its eye and the pouting baby fireman with wings, his arms encircling miniature World Trade Centers. So I bought both of them, because that's just the kind of person I am. Oh, and the mastodon forced me to take the remnants of my meal home in a plastic container. That's a ticking time bomb of salmonella if ever I saw one.

The heat is cruel and ubiquitous out there. The sky near the horizon is white with moisture and any number of suspended particles, and contrails from planes lacerate what's left of the blue. Tubes of humanity glide over my head. In all the years we've spent touring this country, even when we were in buses, I've never been so aware of the immense size, the scale of it. What takes hours in the air takes days by land. I picked up a pamphlet back in the souvenir shop that said I-80 closely follows the Mormon Trail. I can't imagine what it would have been like for those people to walk all the way to Salt Lake City.

.........................................................................................................

It’s the capital of Iowa! As a matter of fact, I will pass through a total of four state capitals on this trek west. The golden dome of the Iowa capitol building beckons me to enter and present my first initiative: find out who is responsible for all the Council Bluffs signs. I'm serious; it's a real problem. That money could have been used to improve the sorry condition of art in motel rooms. I am in Des Moines' Motel 6--you heard me--gazing upon a 1985 geometric nightmare, painted in mauve, seafoam green, and taupe, with several turquoise accents. And you should have seen the front desk: Halloween decorations. Aesthetically, these people have been led astray.

I am paying cash all the way, incidentally. This room was really, really cheap. They're practically paying me, Dean Moriarty, to stay here. Still, I was shocked to discover that there are no complimentary toiletries, and certainly no minibar. I'm drinking tap water from a plastic cup that was wrapped in plastic. I was forced to take a shower when I would have preferred a bath. There is no tub, just a pod-like stall with laughable water pressure, whose temperature was comfortable only when the dial occupied that millimeter of space between being too cold and too hot.

As I lie here on my back, staring at the stucco-ed ceiling, my hands continue to tingle from the vibration of the steering wheel. The scenery, such as it was, no longer flies past, but it feels like it should, and I find my head lurching forward involuntarily. Who knew driving could be so exhausting? I'm too tired to seek liquid refreshment beyond this water, and I assume I will finish what's left of the hateful sauerbraten concoction later tonight. Life on the Riviera, my friend.

......................................................................................................

Oh Edge. Why didn't we stop?


	2. Chrysalis/Humidity/Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who is reading this! 
> 
> If you've read any of my newer stories, you might notice that I recycled a few words from this one, such as "mastodon" and "celadon." And probably many other words ending in -don! I recycled them back when I thought this story was no more. I'd forgotten so much, but for some reason those words stayed with me.
> 
> This cluster of small chapters has Bono back on the road, venturing boldly into Nebraska, and talking to random Americans and Edge.
> 
> Pancake is real.

**Chapter 4: Chrysalis.**

I can be such an elitist. But you already know that. Iowa is indeed a magnificent state, yet there I was yesterday, badmouthing it left and right. Acute fatigue is no excuse, so I would like to offer my earnest apology to the entire state of Iowa and to you, Edge, for having to listen to my whining. Although I was being awfully droll from time to time...no. I'm sorry, Iowa. Please forgive me.

The air at this moment is luscious: syrupy and breezy. I'm driving with the windows down. While I was tempted to do so this morning, it seems a sin to smoke and pollute an atmosphere so luxuriant.

Iowa is the kind of state that inspires one to awaken before sunrise. This is a land that works, a land that earns an honest wage. It is tough enough to cope with the extremes, from blizzard to heat wave. It is an unpretentious, blue-collar state that holds the rest of the country together. This is the America I respect. Look at me: if I were a landmass I would be...Oahu, a delightful little bonbon, glamorous, yet serving no real purpose, no greater good (my activism notwithstanding). Or maybe I’m Stonehenge. I am a collection of big dumb rocks, artfully arranged, that people cross continents and oceans to view, yet once they see me all they can say is, "How the hell did that get here? And why?" Iowa picks up the slack, Edge, and allows ridiculous places and people like me to exist. Two hours to Council Bluffs.

It's like I'm breathing actual vitamins.

............................................................................................................

Why didn't Ali and I drive through Iowa when she was pregnant? Some of these towns have spectacular names. Imagine a child called...Menlo, Exira, Wiota, Avoca, and my personal favorite, Beebeetown. It is seven miles out of my way, but I'm going to see if Beebeetown lives up to its name. Also, I am ravenous. So is the car.

............................................................................................................

Not to be elitist, but this is a town? It has a gas station and grocery store, some kind of restaurant, a farm implement dealership, a post office, and maybe a dozen houses. Fifty people live here. On the plus side, they're virtually giving the gasoline away.

An ancient character has emerged from the store. He wears both suspenders and a belt, and he's struggling with a watermelon.

May I help you, sir?

Thanks. I need all the help I can get. Just put it in the back of the pickup… That's great. What's your name, sonny?

B-Paul. Hewson.

Pleased to meetcha, Paul. Jim Yetter. Folks call me Pancake. Say, where ya from?

I'm from Dublin, Ireland.

Ireland! What the hell're you doin' in Beebeetown?

I must admit I was intrigued by the name of this place.

Well, you know what BBs are, dontcha?

Yes, they're little pellets for...what do you call them...air rifles?

That's right. We used to be the BB capitol of America.

Very impressive, sir.

Aww, call me Pancake.

Okay. Very impressive, Pancake.

The BB factory shut down about fifty years ago, but the name remains.

I must confess, I am an advocate of gun control.

Eh, what's that, sonny?

I don't like guns.

You know what--the wife would take a shine to you. Edna! Young Irish fella here don't like guns.

You could put out someone's eye with those BB guns.

Yes ma'am, you could.

What did I tell ya? Looks like I'm outnumbered.

Take me home. My stories are starting.

Pleasure meeting you ma'am. Pancake.

Likewise. Now you take care, Paul from Ireland!

Paul from Ireland. Back to the pump. Lift the thing… Alright, people are watching me from the restaurant across the street. 'Tastee Freez'? Peculiar name. It has three windows, framing six faces with features that look...handmade. They're just openly gaping. All appear to be contemporaries of Pancake. They can't possibly recognize me, can they? Maybe I won't eat in Beebeetown after all. Ahh, but the heavenly scent of bacon in the morning is a great persuader. I'm walking over there, Edge. After I go inside and pay the guy for the gasoline, of course.

............................................................................................................

Seen ya talkin' ta Pancake!

Yes, he's a lovely gentleman.

Don't know if I'd go so far as to call him 'low-vely', or a gentleman! But welcome to Beebeetown, stranger!

Thank you, sir.

Best damn cuppa coffee in Iowa, right here.

That's a bold statement.

You just wait and see! Am I right, Sue?

Ted, lay off the nice man. Why don't you take a seat over there, hon. Mary will be with you in a sec.

Thanks. (Reg, I've stumbled onto the set of a David Lynch movie...it's a hamlet whose dark, terrible secrets lurk behind its wholesome facade. And this must be Laura Palmer...)

Good morning. My name is Mary and I'll be your...your...

What will you be for me?

Oh. My. God. You're...!

Yes. I'm afraid so. Shush now. We don't want to upset Ted.

You're! Oh my God.

Shhhh...

Okay, of course. Wow. Okay!

May I have one of those, please?

Menu--yes! And coffee? Can I get you some coffee?

Only if it's the best coffee in Iowa.

...Ha ha--I'll be right back!

(Let's see, what comes with bacon here? All right. Everything.)

Um. You were awesome at the Superbowl.

That's very sweet of you to say, love.

Love! You are so cool. Wow. I'm sorry, what would you like? We can make you lunch if you'd rather have a hamburger or something.

You're very kind, but that won't be necessary. I'll have a...number four.

With bacon?

Naturally.

Back in a flash!

(I never thought I'd see it in my lifetime, Reg: an entire cafe the color of celadon, with passages of slightly darker celadon here and there. Two women, resplendent in celadon, commandeer the entire operation, while primordial beings sit and admire them. The dining area is no larger than my children's second bathroom. And I'm taking in a commanding view of the Beebeetown metropolitan area, including such attractions as the sidewalk, the Coke machine, and the car up on concrete blocks. I'm going to meditate on this American splendor for a moment.)

Here we go--just for you!

Doesn't that look delicious?

So, um, Bono? Wow.

Yes?

Are you a White Sox fan?

No. It is my disguise.

It's not working.

I know.

Don't worry. I'm the only U2 fan in six counties.

I'm not sure if I should be happy or sad about that.

Oh, I'm sorry--it's just--stay away from college towns if you don't want to be recognized.

That sounds like solid advice. Are you a student?

University of Iowa, biology. I start back on Monday. I apologize; I'll let you eat--enjoy!

This is the best coffee in Iowa, by the way.

Great!

(This is not coffee, Edge. It is brown water, possibly artificially-colored brown water. This is where coffee goes to die. These biscuits are another matter. I'm going to eat now. Goodbye. If you wish to play along at home, please press pause, prepare and eat a big country breakfast featuring one pound of bacon, and I'll see you on the other side.)

So...? Did you enjoy your breakfast?

It was sheer poetry.

Anything else I can get you? A piece of pie for the road?

Pie would be divine. Surprise me.

If you don't mind me asking, how long will you be traveling?

I'm not certain. Several days. Perhaps a week.

All alone?

Well yes, sweetheart.

What...oh--no! I didn't mean--I wanted to give you something.

I'm sure you did.

No! Well...no! It's a gift. But you can refuse it if you wish.

I absolutely require a gift.

Great!

(You don't get this kind of service...anywhere else, Reg. I'm giving this place five stars. The waitress/biologist is a peach.)

I like your recorder.

I do, too. Say hello to Edge.

The? Edge?

The very Edge.

Hi! The Edge! I love your hats!

Heh--excellent. Now where is my gift? I want to describe it to Edge.

Here you are. Do you know what this is?

Umm, it's an empty glass jar with holes in the lid. And inside the jar, attached to the lid...is that a cocoon?

It's a chrysalis.

How curious! It is exquisite. Edge, suspended from the lid by a short black fiber is a very small, bean-shaped vessel, its color...jade. It's wider and rounder near the top, and then it tapers down to a soft point at the end. At the widest part of the--chrysalis?--is a threadlike seam of black and metallic gold. Extraordinary. And what is hiding inside?

It's a monarch butterfly. I want you to watch it hatch.

Well, so do I! And when will that be?

In just about three days.

What do I have to do to take care of it?

Nothing. Don't let it sit in your car when it's hot outside. Just keep an eye on it.

And how will I know when it's hatching?

That's the best part. The chrysalis will become transparent and you will see the monarch's body inside--it’ll look black. You'll need to watch it carefully after it turns black. The monarch will slowly emerge, all puffy and fat, with damp, wrinkled wings. Escaping the chrysalis is exhausting for the monarch, so just let it hang there for an hour or so. The wings will unfurl before your eyes. When it starts flapping them, open the jar and it will fly away. This generation of monarchs will fly all the way to Mexico for the winter.

How utterly enchanting! Is this a hobby of yours, raising monarch butterflies?

I'm writing a thesis on them. I have twenty others out back. And I had a feeling you'd appreciate this.

It's pure magic, a gift inside a gift. I love it. Thank you--may I kiss your hand?

Would you? Oh my. Please don't tip me. Today is the apex of my career as a waitress. You can go ahead and take this up to Sue.

You'll be the recipient of a substantial tip, I assure you.

Well, gee. Next time you're in Beebeetown...

I certainly will.

Sue, I do believe this is for you.

You sure got Mary all worked up. She's crazy about those butterflies of hers. $6.95, please. Oh, now I know who you are. You're in the movies! You're that funny guy. _Good Morning Vietnam,_ right?

No. But you're very close. Robin Williams is in fact my brother. My much older brother.

Oh, yes, I can really see the resemblance!

 

**Chapter 5: Humidity.**

_I saw her standin' on her front lawn_  
_Just a-twirlin' her baton_  
_Me and her went for a ride, sir_  
_And ten innocent people died._

Now why can't I write lyrics like those, Edge? _Nebraska_ is one of the great songs about serial killers. Bruce Springsteen, elder statesman of rock and roll--I am not ready to be an elder statesman of rock and roll, are you?--that album was his finest hour. He recorded some of it in his kitchen, didn't he? It is the obvious and perfect album to listen to while driving through Nebraska, and I am tempted to break my musical blackout and buy it.

Oh yes, guess what, Edge? I'm in Nebraska. My new jade associate proudly occupies the cup holder. We toasted the state line with a ceremonial Diet Coke. Yes, diet because of the bacon. I've consumed my final heart-attack-on-a-plate. Sensible eating starts now.

I obtained a complimentary Nebraska map from the rest stop a few miles ago. The map itself is gargantuan, and I quickly abandoned any notion of ever refolding it correctly, but there was a wealth of information about this state on the back. Did you know that Malcolm X was from Nebraska? This is only the first of many tidbits I will be sprinkling throughout my narration as I burn, burn, burn like a fabulous yellow roman candle across the next five hundred miles. That man in Chicago said I'd experience Nebraska the hard way, and now I see what he meant. Interstate 80 crosses the state from east to west at its widest point, which includes that extra part that juts above Colorado. It's a straight line. I asked for it.

On the plus side, the speed limit for this state is 75 miles per hour...I smell a math problem! Find a pencil. Here is your question: how much time will I save driving through this state now that the speed limit is 75, as opposed to 65? You know, it's times like these that I really wish you were here, Edge. Because I haven't the faintest idea. What is it, something like two, two and a half hours?

............................................................................................................

The heat has made another triumphant return this afternoon, and so has its special guest star, humidity. They really do make a great team. They're a regular Abbott and Costello, Hepburn and Tracy. Bono and Edge! Anyway, the last time I opened the car door, the air was so hostile I was stupefied, and I may have to call the authorities to file assault charges against this diabolical pair. It's easy to forget about this kind of menace when you travel in air-conditioned complacency. (I get to be humidity, by the way.)

How's this for a mechanical breakthrough: the car has cruise control and I, Bono, have discovered how to operate it. I read the manual! Do you realize what this means for me? I could in essence position the steering wheel and then climb into the back seat for a nap while the car goes on autopilot. I'm kidding. But this does relieve my feet, which seem to have swollen one shoe size today. It's all this sitting...I need to take a walk. Yet another reason to buy _Nebraska._  
............................................................................................................

Some random observations: the endless corn hallway continues, but the occasional trees I pass are markedly smaller. It's windier here; this is Tornado Alley after all. Maybe the trees have adapted, and only the short ones have been allowed to thrive. Feel free to insert your own Bono-is-short joke here, Edge; you know you want to. You're no Wilt Chamberlain either. Every once in a while I pass a field peppered with perfectly cylindrical bales of hay. I'm not sure why, but these hay bales are very appealing to me. They look like some kind of breakfast cereal for a giant. And look at that--an honest-to-God longhorn steer. Up ahead is another field of cows, all of them facing the same direction. Mysterious. How exactly does that happen? Is there a leader to coordinate things or do they all simply know what to do? See, Edge, these are the kinds of things I never noticed when we traveled through this country in the past. I was too busy sleeping, or lying on my back and staring at the sky, or writing, or (better), I was embroiled in too many strenuous intellectual debates with the likes of you. Or drinking.

............................................................................................................

'I Wanna Be Sedated'...oh, that is wild-- Ramones graffiti on an overpass near Grand Island. Can you imagine the Nebraska punk who wrote that? Poor kid, out here all by himself--or herself, wouldn't that be great?--probably the only person at Grand Island High School who has even heard of the Ramones. Nebraska’s isolation really forces one to commit to being a badass. That makes me wonder: would I have survived this kind of aloneness? Would any of us? What kind of person would I be today if I didn't have you, Larry, and Adam around me when I was a teenager?

............................................................................................................

I should buy some film for my camera. I want to photograph some of these water towers. They loom over tiny towns like leviathan ticks.

That does it. I'm buying _Nebraska_ by Bruce Springsteen. I know; if I were a true cowboy I would continue to ride in silence and display some actual grit. But I am in fact a pansy. Get used to it.

 

**Chapter 6: Keys.**

Fuck! Fuckin’...fuck!

..........................................................................................................

I'm required by state law to see your ID if you wanna buy alcohol.

That's fine. Let's see...here you are.

Paul Hewson. Man, you look just like that guy from U2.

I get that all the time.

It must be a complete pain in the ass.

You have no idea.

............................................................................................................

Now we've reached the inevitable part of the show where Bono Locks His Keys in the Car. I am sitting in the snack bar of Kearney, Nebraska's Super Walmart waiting for help to arrive. Here's the story behind the story. And may I say one more time: fuck.

It all started out so innocently. I saw the freakishly tall Walmart sign beckoning me from the road. They sell CDs in Walmart. Excuse me, Super Walmart, a conglomerate that represents everything that is bringing this country to its knees. I parked the car in the mammoth lot, removed the monarch, placed it under the car, and sketched a primitive drawing of a butterfly on my right hand so I wouldn't forget about it. I went inside, completely anonymous, and located a few items: film, socks, apples, shaving cream, those kinds of things. In the book section, which is in and of itself totally laughable, I found a children's book on monarch butterflies. I wanted something more scientific for my own information, but this was the best I could do here. Eli might like it. Or maybe you should have it, Edge, as there are many brightly colored pictures.

Incidentally, I've come to the realization that I may have to do my own laundry at some point.

But back to the story. After staggering around this labyrinthine web of disorientation for fifteen minutes or so, I finally located the entertainment section of the store. What a painfully meager selection of music--I felt truly blessed to actually find _Nebraska_. They must feel obligated to stock it here. Out of curiosity, I checked to see how many of our CDs were represented. _Greatest Hits, Joshua Tree, All That You Can't Leave Behind_ , one copy each. What about obsessive U2 completists who are looking for, oh, _Achtung Baby_? It's only one of the biggest albums of the nineties!

Here is a tip: stay away from the school supply section at all costs. Absolute lunacy. Mothers, with their litters of offspring, meander around like zombies as they gaze into the middle distance, looking for just the right erasers, the most intriguing rulers. Even while surrounded by the intoxicating scent of new art supplies, the children all wear the same expression of resigned hopelessness that comes with the end of summer vacation. I gave up trying to find a decent pen.

I approached one of the thirty(?) checkout lanes, paid for my things, exited the store, and found my car. And that is when I saw them gleaming on the front seat: my beloved car keys. You may wish to rewind this recording to the beginning segment where I exploded with, "Fuck! Fuckin’...fuck!" to get the real flavor of that moment. I turned the recorder off to spare you the rest of the tirade, along with the mortifying assistance I was forced to seek.

A benevolent woman witnessed the entire episode and came over to help me. "Happens to me about once a year," she laughed, explaining the procedure for dealing with my dilemma. She even let me borrow her phone. In case you ever have this problem, which you won't because you never have problems like this, here is what you do. You copy the forty-seven letter and number code that resides near the windshield wipers. You look on the driver's side window to see if you're lucky enough to have a phone number printed there. By the grace of God, I had a number I could call. You call it, providing your name, car model, location, about a dozen other bits and pieces of information, and the all-important code. They will take care of the rest. The operator told me that the nearest locksmith was in Kearney, and it would take him about an hour to make a key for me. She said that since I was in a large parking lot, I should sit in the snack bar and she would tell the locksmith to meet me there. Everything was set up to be refreshingly painless, if only the process didn't surround a hateful predicament that makes one curse the very day he was born.

So I had to plod back into the Super Walmart with my purchases and my monarch, and of course you, Reg. As you probably heard, I made a beeline for the liquor division. Just a bottle of vodka. For later. And now, as Lou Reed would say, I'm waiting for my man. What are the odds that the electronics section stocks the Velvet Underground's back catalog?

This snack bar...it's as if the Walmart building designer was asked to provide only the required elements to technically qualify this area as a place where people could 'snack'. But nothing more. It's a trancelike oasis of eerie gray silence and inactivity and really, really bad food situated in the midst of shopping cart mayhem and shameless consumerism. I'm drinking some frozen, red-flavored mixture that is undoubtedly staining my mouth. Appropriately, playing over the intercom is _Watching the Wheels_ by John Lennon. What a song. Why can't I write lyrics like that?

What's in your jar, mister?

Uh, well, hello there, little boy. Would you like to see it? It's called a chrysalis. Can you say that?

Chrysalis.

In a few days it will turn into a butterfly.

What kind of butterfly?

Oh! I have a book here. It's this kind, orange and black, you see? It's called a monarch.

I've seen those before. My name is Stevie.

My name is Bono.

You have a funny name.

It's really just a nickname.

I like the way you talk.

( _Sling Blade_ , Edge!) I like the way you talk, too. Where is your mother?

She's right over there looking at cookies.

You'd better go back to her. She might think you're lost.

Okay. What is your name?

Bono.

Bye, Bono.

Bye, Stevie.

............................................................................................................

There goes a child on a leash. Thank God those things did not exist when I was a boy. That would have been me. Did I tell you that along with the vodka I also bought a silver chain? I'll put the replacement key on it and wear it as a necklace. I'm like one of those children whose mothers pin mittens to their coats so they won't forget them. That's not a bad idea, you know. This has got to be the guy. Hello? Are you the locksmith?

Sure am. Wanna show me where your car is?

I would love to. Thank you very much for coming to my aid.

No problem. Leaving your keys in the car can be such a hassle. You must feel dumber than a sack o' hammers.

Truer words have never been spoken.

It's gonna be eighty dollars, buddy.

Cheap at twice the price. Keep the change.

Woah, thanks! Take it easy!

You too. (Ha.)

Ahh Reg, back in the car... Ow! Hot leather seat. Damn it! The buckle on the seat belt has branded my left arm. I had to go with the black car.

............................................................................................................

I'm staying in Kearney, at the 1st Interstate Inn, just two blocks from my favorite store. Bruce Springsteen now owes me two hundred dollars. And once again I find myself lying horizontally, staring at the ceiling. To give you some idea of the decor, to my left is one of those photo-murals from the seventies. It's a life-sized picture of two deer in a forest, in tones of burnt orange, avocado, and harvest gold. Stunning. My check in name--Sal Paradise.


	3. Skin/Bird/Monarch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bono's odyssey west continues with this longer chapter. Here are a few little things I borrowed. 
> 
> "At the mercy of tradesmen" was something Niles said on Frasier, and I think about it in my everyday dealings with tradesmen. 
> 
> The "I don't want anything breaded, fried, salted, or...gravied" section is my salute to Say Anything's Lloyd Dobler, who said, "I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed."
> 
> I also paraphrased American Beauty's “stupid little life” line near the end.
> 
> I DO HOPE NONE OF THEM MIND. <3 
> 
> I am so glad to have this story back. Thank you all very much for reading.

**Chapter 7: Skin**

What the...? Deer?

Oh hi, Edge. I must have drifted off for a moment. More than a moment; it's getting dark. That was some nap. I suffered a terrible hallucination in which a certain handsome young man we both know and love locked his keys in his car and was consequently at the mercy of tradesmen. Chilling.

As tempting as it might be to stay in this motel room and commune with the woodland creatures therein, I want to take a walk, preferably somewhere far from what passes as civilization in Kearney. There's nothing wrong with this place, but maybe that's the point. The hotels, restaurants, and stores--they're the same ones a person would encounter in any middle-sized American town. I want to...I don't know, wander around in the country and look at the stars. Yes. A rural escapade.

You like me in red, don't you? Red it is.

............................................................................................................

Welcome to Tom's BBQ, may I take your order?

Let me tell you what I don't want, Tom. I don't want anything breaded, fried, salted, or...gravied. I don't want anything that cooks in its own juices, is composed entirely of flour and lard, or is drowning in butter or mayonnaise. No cheese. No 'special sauce.'

Well, cowboy, I guess that leaves...our 'On the Lite Side' Garden Salad.

Charming.

$3.75, pull up to the first window.

............................................................................................................

I ate that salad, which tasted vaguely plastic, in all of three minutes, but my body seemed relieved to be the recipient of genuine, unmolested vegetables. My brain is currently releasing reward chemicals and gently coaxing me to never eat bacon again, at least not for a few days, anyway.

As I've been driving, I've noticed that there are two kinds of houses in Kearney, which is unwavering in its self-promotion as a boomtown on par with Las Vegas. To accommodate the growing population, a large number of indistinguishable homes have been erected with no regard to landscaping or uniqueness. They are the architectural equivalent of Phil Collins. Elsewhere in what I assume to be Old Town Kearney, the streets are lined with froglike bungalows occupied by widows and their cats. This is just conjecture, Edge, but I know I'm right: widows and cats. The streetlights illuminate pristine lawns and gardens, and each light is surrounded by a penumbra of moths, all swarming around the bright center like electrons orbiting a nucleus.

............................................................................................................

A drive-in movie--looks like a romantic comedy is on the screen. I wouldn't want to watch it, though. I feel forlorn going into normal theaters by myself. It would be worse to be alone at a drive-in.

I'm on a barely paved road on the outskirts of town, slipping back into the cornfields. This gravel road looks as good as any. I can still see the movie from where I've parked the car. The view is somewhat obscured by a mighty elm tree, which makes it seem like I'm looking through lace curtains at someone else's happy life.

I have my keys. Just checking.

............................................................................................................

Can you hear this? That crunchy noise is my shoes on gravel. It sounds like I'm walking through snow. And do forgive my apple-chewing. I'm just simple country folk now.

Venturing out here was a good idea. Twilight lends an air of romance to the mundane. Day is merely a prelude to this chattering orgy of nocturnal creatures. Cicadas, frogs, and a host of other unnamed loudmouths are all making lusty connections. I'm in an echo chamber filled with wind-up walking toys, and they've got me surrounded. And...is that an owl I hear, Edge?

I can feel actual heat coming off the corn, and I can sense a collective exhalation of the plants now that the sun is gone. At ease, gentlemen! The atmosphere is still warm but cooling. Glorious night air. I'm suddenly very much aware of my own skin.

There is no moon, and as a result the sky boasts an embarrassment of stars, made slightly golden by the humidity. The darkness is perforated and fragile. I could tear it into fragments like a piece of tissue paper. There is Orion. Cassiopeia. One of the dippers. I've never had the patience to learn all the constellations, but that is something I can change. 'If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore?' I think that was Emerson. Thoreau? I can never keep those two straight. But the point is, how many nights of my life have I taken the stars for granted?

I need this. I need to be here.

Edge.

I can't be three people. I'm not around enough for Ali and the children, as self-sufficient as she is. I'm discouraged by the pushback regarding debt relief, and I hate the fact that I have to work that much harder to accomplish anything at all these days. I feel like I'm wasting everyone's time in the studio. I'm with you but I'm not really there. I miss the way it used to be, that intense focus, that almost myopic vision that made the band my entire universe.

Are you looking at these same stars right now? You're always so much better than I am at calculating time zones...yes, it's still dark where you are. Can you sleep, Edge? Are you awake? Are you thinking about it? Are you thinking about me?

............................................................................................................

The movie continues. Hugh Grant would never have made it as a silent film actor. He is kissing a striking woman with dark hair; open your eyes, love. Brown eyes. Ahh, Ali.

Beautiful Ali. She doesn't age so much as she...ripens. I love her, Edge. And you and Morleigh finally got married over the summer. They are the constant, unchanging variables in the mathematical equation even you and certainly I can't solve.

Just because I'm not talking about it doesn't mean I'm not fixating on it with each passing mile.

You found me after I stormed out, frustrated and blocked. You placed your hand on mine, silencing me with your eyes. It had been weeks since I'd had the opportunity to simply look into your eyes for any amount of time, and in that close little room I realized how much I had missed you. You erased my tear, kissed my cheek, and then...I relive it every time I stare at the horizon, reminded of the vanishing points of your eyes, wanting to steal into them and disappear.

 

**Chapter 8: Bird.**

Off to a late start. Is today Thursday? Let's call it Thursday.

The car and I are in critical need of fuel. The windshield is a crime scene of crusty, baked-on bug viscera, and with this blue mystery fluid provided by Sinclair, I am attempting to obliterate all the grisly evidence and reclaim my good name as a non-homicidal pacifist. It is disgusting work.

My hair is still damp from this morning's shower, and damp it will stay if this drinkable air has anything to say about it. Across the way a high school football team--American football--is practicing in full gear, and each whistle from the coach is followed by groans and the crunch of bodies colliding. How grueling that must be. Their red uniforms positively glow against the green grass. From the air they must look like a field of poppies.

Speaking of flowers, I've picked a lovely specimen that was growing near the gas station. It has festive purple blooms, punctuated by remarkable buds that resemble tiny pineapples! I could not resist. It put up a fight. The stalk was fibrous and undoubtedly connected to an extensive root system. It belongs to me now.

............................................................................................................

Where is your coffee?

Over by the chips, to your right. Rough night?

I had some trouble sleeping, I suppose.

You look a little wan.

Let's keep Juan out of this, ma'am.

Heh heh, alright honey. Gas, large coffee, M&Ms...anything else you need?

Yes, actually. Could you tell me what kind of plant this is?

Oh, that's just ironweed. It's quite a pest out here. Cattle won't eat it--too bitter--but I always thought it was pretty. $19.69, please.

That's interesting, thank you. Would you accept my humble gift of ironweed?

Well, how cute is that? You bet I would. Thirty-one is your change. Come back and see us again real soon, babe.

............................................................................................................

I'm following a westbound dump truck, Edge. It's not an important detail; I just like saying those words.

I'm back on I-80, and this is the day I will put Nebraska out of its misery. To my left is the Platte River, which is wide and rambling and probably four inches deep. According to my Nebraska map, this road follows not only the Mormon trail, but also the Oregon Trail, the Pony Express, the Union Pacific railway, and part of the old Lincoln Highway, built ninety years ago, connecting the cities of Boston and San Francisco.

Westbound dump truck...wait, that was the last M&M? Damn it. I would have sucked that one.

............................................................................................................

Momentous occasion coming up, Edge...yes, did you feel that? I've crossed the 100th parallel, and according to the map, that is where the humid atmosphere of the Midwest cedes to the dry air of the West. I am officially Out West! Let's roll down the window and see if there's a difference...there is no difference.

Still, things are starting to spread out. Exits come less frequently, and the cornfields are starting to give way to ranches and grasslands. There are some counties in this part of Nebraska that are occupied by only one minor town. The terrain is still quite flat, but I can sense a slow, steady change in elevation. I think I will miss the cornfields, as ludicrous as that sounds. Last night felt like I was witnessing the climax of summer: the corn, the air, the stars, the insects, all of them were at the peak of their existence. And now, I can't help feeling the melancholy that follows the little death.

I'm going to listen to gentleman Bruce at this time.

............................................................................................................

Last night after I drove back to the motel, I had a drink or two with the monarch and the deer, who convinced me that watching your beloved Weather Channel was not really watching television, so I spent a good two hours absently observing the hypnotic radar patterns closing in on places like Madison, Wisconsin and Peoria, Illinois. Very relaxing, but as I'm sure you know, it's impossible to shut out certain thoughts these days.

Time change coming up--I've just entered the mountain time zone, so now I have another hour to obsess about our...encounter.

I crave dramatic side lighting. That is not a possibility on this interstate. In the morning: comic book flatness. At noon: a shadowless sitcom where spotlights hit actors from all sides. In the afternoon: silhouettes. I cherish the rare, momentary road shifts to the north and south, when the world becomes three-dimensional again.

Another hour to obsess.

............................................................................................................

I've noticed that Nebraska humanely provides its I-80 travelers with frequent rest areas, all of which have public sculptures, usually geometric bronze monuments endorsing the general dynamism of Nebraska, I guess. They can be seen from the road, and it's a nice touch, but dear God this state does not end. I'm getting a real understanding of infinity and eternity itself out here.

Ogallala: that is the name of a town. I don't know if I like it or if it sounds like the kind of noise one makes while gargling. Oh no. Those aren't orange barrels. No.

This hat has got to go. I'm bored with it. No one's getting the subliminal sexual undertone of the word 'sox'. Or are they? It doesn't matter; it's simply not a cool hat, and the bill is competing with my nose. The next chance I get, I'm buying a cowboy hat. How about Cheyenne?

............................................................................................................

I'm approaching the state line, Edge, and I have just experienced a transportation orgasm. That's not what you think it is. Picture it: a legendary Irish singer--older, but he’s still got it--in a black car approaches a railroad overpass. On that overpass come two trains; one headed north, one headed south. The singer drives beneath the two trains at the exact moment that they meet on the overpass, right over his head. I'm telling you, it was incredible. I expected to see twin space shuttles blasting off on the other side, and perhaps two helicopters landing, two cement mixers dumping their cargo...the possibilities for bigger, better transportation orgasms are indeed endless.

I have finally reached the sanity of Wyoming.

............................................................................................................

The tour of cheap motels continues. I have secured a room at the Cheyenne Super 8. This afternoon's check-in name was Ignatius J. Reilly, a man who is now wearing a straw cowboy hat purchased from Frontier Boot in downtown Cheyenne. The alluring cowgirl who helped me choose the hat told me my profile is 'revolutionary', can you imagine? She would probably describe you as...just...achingly handsome. Born to wear a cowboy hat.

Those chores completed, I am famished. All I've consumed today were apples, coffee, and M&Ms. Against my better judgment, I am going into the Sapp Brothers Big C truck stop. I want to see what truckers eat.

............................................................................................................

Truckers eat lethal food that tastes fantastic. They also get special booths with their own phones. The rest of us are denied access to these booths, and I've got to admit I'm jealous. I'm on a barstool, and there’s something mildly humiliating about it. My monarch remains in its jade shell; sleep well, love. Tomorrow's your big debut.

............................................................................................................

Oh Jesus. _With or Without You_ is playing.

............................................................................................................

Christ, your guitar...I need a drink.

You okay, buddy?

Oh, um, yeah, I'm fine...I guess this song is making me miss my...family.

Sounds like you're pretty far from home.

Ireland, actually.

Guess I hit that nail right on the head! Lee Lawson, farmer.

Paul Hewson, agricultural neophyte. Do you mind if I record our conversation?

Is that what this thing is? Can't say that I've ever been recorded, but you go right ahead, pal. What do you do?

I'm a singer in a rock band.

No kidding? I like country music, myself.

Johnny Cash?

You'd better believe it! So, you miss home, eh?

I miss...he's kind of like my brother. More than a brother, really. We parted on awkward terms and I don't really know what to do about it. I wanted to tell him...

If he's a brother, or more than a brother, just tell him you love him, and it'll all work out. It's like he's part of your family, right? If you find someone who loves you, you'd better hang on tooth and nail, that's what I've always said.

That sounds like wisdom. Thanks. Yeah, thanks.

Your band any good?

Oh, we do alright.

............................................................................................................

Ahh Edge, I used to sing like an angel. Now my voice is...I guess you could call it comfortable, lived-in, like a pair of old blue jeans, which is not a bad thing, but I'd like to hit those high notes again. Why, why did I not take better care of my voice? So foolish.

And then there is you, always so vigilant when it comes to your hands. You won't even lift heavy things by yourself if there is a chance that your fingers could be injured. Your hands reward you by creating new sounds. You provide your gift, your hands, with the reverence they deserve.

I'm thinking about them all the time now.

Your hands...so perceptive, so instinctual...different from a woman's hands, which can be tentative, delicate, yielding. No. When you touched me I could tell that each fingertip was gleaning information, each was on a fact-finding mission. They left glowing trails in their wake, visible trajectories that I'm convinced everyone can see now. My skin is permanently streaked.

I think this confusion has somehow altered my face, and now I'm completely transparent to all who see me. My eyes--it's like a membrane has been pulled back and everything looks different to me now. I was even on television looking like this. I'm sure the fans are having a field day. They've always speculated; you know at least some of them have.

The appeal of a woman's body lies in its contrast--different forms, different reactions--and I had always imagined that the lack of contrast would make...two men...less gratifying. But the ambiguity, the blurred lines, the uncertain roles...the person I became... I'm not saying this well. But every time I think about it, my face smolders with a fever I've only felt a few times in my life. It's the kind of reaction you suffer right before you get hit in the face with a baseball, or right before you almost get caught shoplifting. Only, I've got to admit, this time it feels good.

And right. Even though...

I do love you. There it is. I’ve said it.

............................................................................................................

You laughed at me years ago when we were touring the States and I, lovesick, sprayed my pillow with Ali's perfume before I fell asleep. I even put some on myself.

Guess what I'm doing now? I know what you wear.

............................................................................................................

You kissed my mouth, and my head tilted back. I was helpless to do anything to stop it. I was a greedy baby bird with his mouth wide open at the approach of his mother.

 

**Chapter 9: Monarch.**

Still green, darling?

............................................................................................................

I'd forgotten the wicked pleasure of buying erotic literature, of brashly placing three heady titles before a shadowy cashier who is obligated to ask, 'Did you find everything you wanted?' To which one is compelled to sigh, 'Yes. Oh yes....' while maintaining unblinking eye-contact, perhaps raising a saucy eyebrow as she calculates the total and places the volumes in a plain brown paper sack, and then leaning in a bit too closely to accept receipt and change. Did my fingers touch hers during the transaction? It's entirely possible, Edge.

I entered the bookstore intent on finding a better road atlas, one that shows more topographical information. I can already see shards of mountain peaks way off in the southwest. I found the atlas, and as is always the case with me, one thing led to another. I can never leave a bookstore, or any store really, with the lone item I need. More temptations leap off the shelves and into my eager arms.

And they were _Lolita_ , of course, because she reminds me so much of you, Edge; _Against Nature_ by J.-K. Huysmans, and _100 Love Sonnets_ by Pablo Neruda. Is it unfashionable to enjoy Neruda? I don't care. I just don't.

Next I patronized a small Cheyenne grocery store. I needed: insect repellent, which I won't use until my monarch departs (I don't want her to hate me). I purchased: insect repellent...plus some rudimentary picnic components, including the kinds of things a person needs to make sandwiches, along with oranges and some ostentatious chocolate. I bought these provisions, announcing, 'This is going to be the best picnic ever!' The checkout woman seemed nonplussed, but my spirits remain high, Edge.

............................................................................................................

Back to I-80. The kiln-like temperature is supposed to subside today. I was watching the Weather Channel again last night. I'm becoming addicted to the radar loops and the soothing voices of each forecaster. I'm especially fond of that big guy who looks like a basketball player--very smooth delivery. I also needed to see if today's weather conditions were favorable for my monarch's maiden voyage. Okay, that’s a lie. That would have been the considerate thing to do. Something you would do. The thought of my insect's safety only dawned on me at this very moment.

............................................................................................................

It was wrong. It was wrong.

What are we doing, Edge? Your timing was appalling, you know. Why did you have to make this happen now, when so many other things are plaguing me? It makes me angry, it really does. I know I've been thorny and preoccupied, a real jewel of a human being lately. Were you trying to provide me with some perspective, Mr. Vanishing Point? Were you trying to make me see that there are other people as important as me? Were you trying to prove how easily you could make my mind explode? Or were you merely being selfish--catching me at my most vulnerable and taking advantage of me?

Your timing was appalling.

............................................................................................................

These mountains--I've been watching them flirt with the horizon for an hour, and at long last I feel like I'm getting closer to the Snowy Range. Unmoving and solid, they loom in formidable tranquility. They wait for me. Strong. Silent. Magnificent. Ever-present and eternal. Sculpted by God.

I'm sorry about that outburst, Edge. What we did--it wasn't wrong.

............................................................................................................

This is Laramie, Wyoming. A perfect cowboy town. It's dusty, windblown, stubbornly unpolished, and surrounded by grasslands with antelope and wild horses.

Dear God, Edge, that poor boy, brutalized and left to die on a fence. How could that have happened here? There is a wraithlike presence, an eerie veil that hangs over Laramie. Every town has ghosts, I suppose.

Nevertheless, or maybe because of this, I bought you a souvenir from a store that specializes in 'old pawn'--Native American jewelry, the real deal, handmade, and most of it at least seventy years old. There were three big rooms with the old pawn under glass, and I was trailed by a tenacious Navaho octogenarian in a wheelchair for the duration of my visit. She was minding the store and apparently knew the stories behind each and every item it contained. An impressive turquoise ring caught my eye, substantial enough to look good on a man's hand but not so large that it would impede his guitar playing. The stone was an otherworldly, electric blue with a tracery of black serpentine trails, one of which resembled the letter B. I instantly saw it on your right hand.

The woman asked me if I was planning to visit Centennial, which is both a mountain and a town in the Snowy Range. A circuitous highway leads to the summit, which enjoys an elevation of some 11,000 feet. She said that even I could manage the driving--not sure what she was getting at there--and that the route would take me right back to I-80. I pointed to my monarch and asked if it could survive being in the mountains, and she said she sees monarchs up there all the time. So we're having a picnic in the mountains, Edge. And I'm wearing your ring, you know, for safekeeping; I'm sure you don't mind. This ring is so cool.

............................................................................................................

The winding road is simply grand, with so many twists it feels like I'm driving in cursive. What is this road spelling, Edge? The range is lush with walls of pine trees, and now aspen groves as I continue to climb. The quaking leaves shimmer with every tiny breeze, and their trunks are white and papery. I think you told me that an aspen grove is in fact one organism, with each trunk connected to its brothers via an underground network of roots. Quite like the four of us.

..........................................................................................................

The trees are thinning, and their shapes are becoming progressively tortured and macabre as I ascend. Being a tree up here must be a day-to-day struggle; they have my admiration. The road is now lined with soaring poles; do you think these are here so snow plow drivers can know the location of the road? They must get a lot of snow up here.

I've been driving for about an hour. The air is deliciously crisp. I may have to locate the leather jacket. God is making me aware of every breath I take now. The thin air is forcing me to inhale deeply and really appreciate and use the oxygen.

............................................................................................................

Ahh, the summit. Seven gray megaliths tower before me and pierce the sky. How can I even begin to describe this? I don't think I can. I’ve listened to your geology stories long enough to know that massive unseen forces miles beneath my feet have created this range. One continental plate has yielded to another and slid below, allowing its mate to rise so slowly that it can't possibly perceive its change and its dizzying new height.

The clouds rolling over the peaks create an optical illusion; the pinnacles appear to be falling backwards. Behind me is a drop-off that is truly startling and a vista the likes of which I've never seen. Endless fields, green and tan, roads, Laramie, maybe even Cheyenne. I've been in airplanes at altitudes three times this lofty, but vertigo never seems to take over when I'm in an airtight capsule, protected from the elements. Here I'm completely exposed.

You know how sometimes I'll be talking just to hear the sound of my own voice, trying to impress the world with my non-rock star vocabulary but not saying much of anything...and then I'll look at you to see if you've caught this or that key idea? And you'll have this serene expression on your inscrutable face that makes me forget whatever it was I had to say? That's what it's like looking at this summit. I am so small, so pompous, so pretentious, and the peaks fully acknowledge that, but at the same time I feel that some great, compassionate entity is regarding me with affection. And I can't help being thankful for every last day of my laughable life.

............................................................................................................

How long have you been black, love?

............................................................................................................

The monarch and I are sequestered beside an alpine lake. Looking for a place to park, I found a side road that piloted me to this hidden sapphire pool. The water, melted snow collected from the summit, is somehow more than water. It's pristine, perfect water, cold and so clear it's practically invisible. We're reclining on a blanket, and I'm eating the best picnic ever. I can see her blazing wings through the chrysalis, which swings gently from side to side. Is she aware of the changes she's undergone inside her pod? Did she feel it when her new visage formed, when her wings grew, when her entire body transformed?

Or did she merely sleep through the entire process? She is struggling now, like a mother giving birth, and I am useless to help her beyond the occasional word of encouragement. Breathe, darling. See, I'm doing everything I can.

............................................................................................................

For the love of God, I wish you could see this. The chrysalis is splitting like a frozen pond, and there is her pretty face, black and white, antennae, eyes, long curling tongue. Her delicate legs are tearing at the opening, and here she comes!

Tears in my eyes, Edge.

............................................................................................................

Her body is plump, and her wings are indeed wrinkled and damp. She clings to her empty shell. I hate to tell you this, darling: once you've left your chrysalis there's no going back. You're not a caterpillar anymore, whose two simple functions are to eat and grow. Welcome to adulthood. You're now expected to fend for yourself, traverse the continent in search of a mate, and ride the wind without a map.

I know it's such a cliché, the idea of a butterfly representing a new start, a rebirth, a baptism...even Mariah Carey has a song about it. But I am truly fascinated and moved by this. She's gone through a rite of passage, all alone for several days, and through this self-imposed isolation comes change.

............................................................................................................

I'd love to videotape her wings, which are expanding and flattening rapidly as her abdomen lengthens and thins. They are orange and black, amber-red stained glass windows with a splatter of white dots on the tips. Her wings look like a church on fire. I'm sorry darling, but it's true. She's suspended upside down from her chrysalis, gathering strength, wings fluttering. What's that, love? You would like to hear a little Neruda before you set out on your journey? My pleasure. Edge, you listen too.

 _'I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
_Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._  
_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
_In secret, between the shadow and the soul.__

_____ _

_I love you as the plant that never blooms_  
_But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;_  
_Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,  
_Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.__

_____ _

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where._  
_I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;_  
_So I love you because I know no other way_  
_Than this: where "I" does not exist, nor "you",  
_So close that your hand on my chest is my hand,  
_So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.'___

____

She's beautiful and she's gone, Edge. And I know I won't be able to throw this jar away.

............................................................................................................

I've come down from the mountain, aided by the howling wind outside Rawlins, Wyoming, another cowboy town. The wind was rather frightening, and larger vehicles were pulling over to the side of the road. There was supposed to be a dramatic temperature shift today, a violent cold front roaring through, and that must have been it. The clouds were positively boiling, and as I approached Rawlins, a brown banshee of dust rampaged down into the valley, violent and screaming. I took this as my cue to stop driving and seek shelter. Pablo is staying at the Days Inn tonight.

............................................................................................................

Upscale motel--they have bathtubs! And who am I to turn my back on such luxury? I am savoring the rest of my chocolate within the confines of said bathtub. It's all so very decadent, and to top it off, I have found a poem for you and me.

 _'My love, I returned from travel and sorrow_  
_to your voice, to your hand flying on the guitar,  
_to the fire interrupting the autumn with kisses,  
_to the night that circles through the sky.___

_____ _

_I ask for bread and dominion for all;_  
_For the worker with no future I ask for land.  
_May no one expect my blood or my song to rest!  
_But I cannot give up your love, not without dying.___

________ _ _ _ _

_So: play the waltz of the tranquil moon,_  
_The barcarole, on the fluid guitar,  
_Till my head lolls, dreaming:__

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _

_For all my life's sleeplessness has woven_  
_This shelter in the grove where your hand lives and flies,  
_Watching over the night of the sleeping traveler.'__

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

It was right, Edge. It was right.

___________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	4. Snowflake/Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading this again after so many years is such a trip, you guys. In this part, Bono declares himself a cinnamon roll, years and years before it became a Tumblr meme. Did I predict cinnamon roll? DID I START CINNAMON ROLL?
> 
> Okay, thanks again for reading and commenting and caring and remembering. This part lays the groundwork for the conclusion, which I hope you'll enjoy.
> 
> Capitol Reef is the most profoundly beautiful place I've ever seen.

 

**Chapter 10: Snowflake.**

Hey, thanks a bunch, Abby. (Woman's got an ass a man could get lost in, know what I mean, pal?)

What? Ehm, excuse me, could I get that 'to go' instead?

............................................................................................................

Classy town. It's quite like any other I've seen this week, but there's a roughness to Rawlins. I'm picturing Kearney in about thirty years, after they've stopped trying. The hotel literature seemed inordinately proud of the town's ‘Old Pen,’ a supposedly haunted, inoperative prison that's open for tours. You can even sit in the gas chamber. Unbelievable. I drove by the place this morning, and it is a menacing citadel framed by incongruous turrets. I can't wait to hit the road.

Fuel for car, fuel for Bono, keys in pocket, glasses in... Okay, it's time to break out the aviators. Not that I need them. The clouds are gun-in-the-mouth gray, and the altitude of Rawlins is such that they seem closer, like a claustrophobic, smothering blanket. The only advantage of an overcast sky is that the colors of the scenery are more easily identified without the sun's glare. The cool, dusty wind continues to fight for custody of my clothing and hair.

............................................................................................................

You'd be pleased with my new restrained lifestyle these days. I still have some vodka left, and I've smoked a total of four cigarettes. Not bad! My thoughts are clearer and more organized. I've been getting to bed at a Christian hour and sleeping...well, that could be improved. Last night the wind screamed and rain bombarded my motel window at annoyingly irregular intervals. (At least the car looks clean now.)

I turned on the radio to alleviate the noise situation and was presented with three AM stations, two of them 'news-talk'. I selected the music station, which was playing _Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay_. Don't you love the interference and static and weird outer space sounds that can only be heard on AM radio? It made the song's whistling segment more disquieting than it already is, and I felt fairly certain that I was the only person listening to it as I watched the red digital numbers on the clock change: 1232, 1233, 1234.

Earlier, I had emerged from my bath warm and dreamy, clean except for the fluorescent streaks on my body that will never leave me. I curled up like a warm little cinnamon roll under the blankets, thinking, 'His lips have been here, and here, but not here, not yet.' I found myself kissing my own fingers, mimicking but never matching, oh Edge, your mouth.

............................................................................................................

I didn't learn about it until this morning, but Rawlins lies on the continental divide. It has something to do with drainage: every river east of the divide empties into the Mississippi, and the western rivers drain into the Pacific, I think. Funny how last night’s ‘it was right’ epiphany came in a bathtub on the continental divide. Edge, I wonder which path my bathwater chose--heh, maybe it decided to go both ways. 

I know I said at the beginning of this trip that I would not use the phone. I'm still not going to call you. But if I did here's what I would say. I want to know if you're all right. I was a bastard. I'm sorry, Edge, and I hope you're not...I just wish you could somehow join me out here. Dear God, I miss you.

............................................................................................................

Isn't the landscape ever going to become the least bit exciting? There's less vegetation and it is still so flat, disrupted every now and then by solitary rock formations that resemble the dinosaurs that used to tower above this austere terrain.

Tragically, it's this kind of boredom that causes any sane man to compose bad haiku poetry. I've been reading too much Neruda. Prepare yourself for a haiku jamboree, Edge.

This is such a mess  
Trapezoidal love ennui  
Just what I needed

The longer I sleep  
In Wyoming cowboy towns  
The more I miss Edge

We're twin petals from  
The same flower of genius  
That's why I love you

Hey, at least I'm writing again.

............................................................................................................

I'm not the substandard driver everybody seems to think I am. I've come all this way on the busiest interstate in America, some 1,200 miles, without incident. I really should be applauded for this accomplishment. Nebraska in particular should consider putting my face on stamps.

Interstate driving is a ballet, with patterns and rhythms and unspoken contracts between drivers. We weave in and out, we watch each other in mirrors, we obsess about blind spots, and we find clusters of like-minded motorists operating at identical speeds. We communicate with blinking lights, nods, and the occasional courtesy wave. There's something civilized and gracious about it.

About to pass me is yet another car with a vanity license plate: 'SPCMNKY'. No idea. What's wrong with a random assortment of letters and numbers? Most of the time these little word puzzles are maddening. She's waving at me and pointing to something. Time to pour on the Irish charm. How are you, sweetheart? Yes, it's me. Our little secret, okay? She's still pointing. What's that about? She's throwing her hand up and passing me. Odd.

............................................................................................................

How long has my left turn signal been flashing? I really shouldn't eat and drive at the same time.

.........................................................................................................

I'm approaching the western Wyoming city of Green River. And it's snowing; it's actually snowing. I couldn't believe what I was seeing at first. I noticed a white haze on the horizon, which I thought must have been fog, but the clouds soon took on that heavy inevitability that could only mean one thing. The flakes are melting as soon as they hit the pavement, but I'm seeing a bit of accumulation on other surfaces. The one night I didn't watch the Weather Channel... It's so beautiful and strange. Rest area--I'm pulling over.

............................................................................................................

People are entering and leaving the restroom facility with delighted and stupefied expressions on their faces, some flinging their arms up and spinning around. This late August snow must be a freak occurrence. I'm sitting at a picnic table, and I've thrown my head back, catching snowflakes on my tongue like a little boy. They are exquisite things: diamonds and stars, feathers and kisses, all falling on my forehead, nose, eyelids, hair, neck, and lips, and all melting on contact until I'm covered with droplets.

The landscape has officially become interesting. Heroic golden outcroppings tower over Green River, and through the snow I'm detecting more mountain peaks in the southwest. This is the West of Remington, of Moran, of John Wayne. And me without my cowboy hat...the car's headrest cannot accommodate the wide brim. This is truly a blow to my fellow motorists, denied the opportunity to view Bono in this relevant headgear.

............................................................................................................

I've polished off Wyoming rather handily, so you know what that must mean. I am now in Utah, specifically Salt Lake City. The snow has subsided, and I'm walking around Temple Square, mission control for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This place is far out, Edge. I would talk more, but in this setting I know I look suspicious, and it's probably unwise to be wielding a mysterious electronic device.

............................................................................................................

To add to the surrealism of this day, I, Bono, am sitting in the Best Western Airport Inn's laundry facility, watching as various shades of dark clothing tumble monotonously in the dryer. I've just consumed some fast food I don’t remember tasting. Outside I can see a tangerine sunset. I'm being subjected to the maudlin compositions of Styx, and Dennis DeYoung is taunting me with his terrifying range. Let me tell you a little bit about my afternoon, Edge.

We've been here before, of course, and I think anyone who visits Salt Lake City would agree that there is an indefinable vibe that hovers over this valley. The location is extravagant and unusual, with colossal mountains to the east of the city that spring violently out of the earth and create a remarkable panorama. Leftover Olympic memories can be spotted here and there, and the highways are beyond reproach. I keep reminding myself that the Mormon pioneers walked the entire distance I've driven over the last several days. Astonishing.

An almost maniacal sense of order and tidiness dominates Temple Square, with its flawless gardens, sidewalks, and bright shiny faces. The temple itself is a mountain of white marble, a collision of gothic and renaissance architecture, with just a pinch of Utah bizarreness thrown in to make the entire edifice baffling to most students of structural design. Only devout Mormons may enter, which gives the temple an exclusive cachet that I quite appreciate. Nearby is the equally eccentric and acoustically perfect tabernacle, which looks like a caramel-colored, upside down bowl. For reasons unknown to me, no nails were used in its construction. So, right on for those two.

So there I was, pale and ominous in black leather, nosing around the square. I was not wearing the cowboy hat, assuming there must be unknowable hat folkways surrounding this religion. I received two diametrically opposite reactions from the wholesome denizens of Temple Square. Half saw me as the 'other' and responded the way some people will to amputees, for example, with the simple recognition that I was different, which is indeed true. Larry would be the only one of us to really fit in here looks-wise. I've never seen a population so conservative and clean cut, many with nametags and sensible shoes, and they seemed to regard me as pagan. Otherwise, I was a lump of amorphous clay placed before a guild of eager sculptors, keen to promote their curious faith, offering to give me tours, and acting maybe a bit too friendly. May I add, Edge, that my face was on the cover of Time magazine six months ago, yet no one seemed to know me here. Parents with constellations of young children swarmed the square, and I felt a sincere pang when I heard a baby wailing. I saw a young couple standing at the steps of the temple, just married and posing for photographs. So young.

You might think I would begin to second-guess my ideas about...us...in the face of such family-based religious conservatism. Interestingly, it didn't take long for my rebellious spirit to take over, reveling in its otherness and craving this city's forbidden smoke, alcohol, coffee, and...sex.

And you.

............................................................................................................

Hello, Edge? It's me.

I'm in Salt Lake City--you'll hear all about it later.

I'm okay. I just wanted to say... Did I wake you?

Neither can I. I've had a lot of time to think.

Edge, I...you go first.

You don't have to be sorry. Are you terribly cross with me?

Really, I think it surprised both of us. I've been coming to terms with it...and now I feel...

Exactly. Christ, it's good to hear your voice.

Oh, you know, living underground, eating from a can.

That too.

Yes.

Yes.

Do you really think we can figure this out?

I hope so. 

Edge. I keep reliving it. The kiss. God, Edge, you fucking kissed me. 

It was sexy. The way you just sort of took me, and the way my body automatically reacted to you...like it had been secretly craving you for years. 

You have? 

Decades. Since we were boys. 

I do. I want more. I get so…

Yeah. Your hands...I wanna--

Did you just call me baby?

Do it again.

Fuck...

Edge, I need to ask you a question. You can say no...

 

**Chapter 11: Wind.**

It's working again. Good.

Reg (if I may speak to Reg the recorder for a moment), I apologize for not noticing your 'low-battery' light. I've had a lot on my mind these days, but you have needs too, and I'm sorry. You missed one historic phone call last night; suffice it to say that I am no longer driving on I-80 this morning. It's I-15--impressive, yes? I'm driving southwest on a diagonal line that cuts through Utah, and the fun will really begin later as I attempt to navigate several scenic highways in search of a mysterious place called Capitol Reef, where I will await the arrival of human Edge.

Hello. Hear that? That's the sound of me blushing. I don't know what to say to you this morning, except that I'm smiling, and the heat of the sun on my left ear feels like the breath of a lover.

............................................................................................................

It's summer again, and I wish you could be here driving instead of me. Two magnificent views are competing for my consideration. To my left, a fortification of mountains, craggy and intrepid and mighty...to my right, a bucolic cycle of abundant farmlands and pastures whose colors range from periwinkle to salmon to goldenrod, all merging like a watercolor in the rain. The tracts appear to be meticulously irrigated by farmers whose ancestors hauled the agricultural muscle of Illinois to this desert, kicking and screaming every step of the way. I want to look at both scenes and still manage to keep the car on the highway. The wind is rather fanatical this morning and is doing everything it can to knock me right off the road.

Edgewood Golf Course? Oh, that's perfect...located conveniently nearby must be the Bonoerection Tennis Courts.

Time to get some breakfast.

............................................................................................................

I noticed a sign indicating that restaurants were located at an exit back there, so I took it. Then I noticed the name of the town, Spanish Fork. Spanish, Edge. I decided to stop there anyway, and as soon as I left the car, a gust of wind collided with my body, depositing dust particles into my eyes that I still haven't completely extricated.

I sat down in a diner overrun by women swollen with babies and their boisterous children, several of whom wandered over to my booth, eyed me skeptically, and returned to their French toast and screaming. It was so loud in there I had to turn the recorder off. I watched the wind create miniature cyclones outside. A waitress noticed my curiosity and reported that they are called 'dust devils' and nothing to be concerned about. I was supplied with a plate of serviceable blueberry pancakes, satisfying but not as good as when Ali...this is not going to be easy, Reg.

Back on I-15, the sun is now so intense my eyes smart, and the wind continues to pummel the car. Just because I can drown her out with music doesn't mean she's not there. Wanting in.

How can I do this to her?

............................................................................................................

I can't return to the chrysalis. I've changed. I know it.

...........................................................................................................

Dear Edge, I think two hours may have passed. Navigating these state roads is no easy task, and I've had to make connections no fewer than three times. I should be awarded the key to the pivotal municipality of Sigurd for simply locating it. 

The subsiding mountains are gradually being stripped of their green coverings. As a boy I used to relish lifting heavy rocks to reveal their underground secrets: strange pale insects that scurried away, colorless shoots yearning for sunlight, roots, snails, and decaying sticks. This landscape is starting to resemble an oversized child's stone playground, full of upended and abandoned red rocks now at the mercy of wind and rain. Sediment and piles of debris litter the ground around them as they slowly melt into sand.

After driving in silence for several days, I'm starting to hear music in virtually every mundane noise. The sounds of the road in particular...driving on concrete, we're in E. Switch to asphalt, and we're in A. Now that I'm forcing myself to notice this phenomenon, air conditioners, shower jets, lawn mowers, and things like those all seem musical, somehow.

The songs I do hear have taken on new meanings; when I relate them to our situation it's like I'm hearing them for the first time. There is a fortune-cookie aspect to hearing random music during the day. It's kind of like when a person places a finger in the Bible for an arbitrary verse, seeking a written sign from above. For example, I turned on the radio a few minutes ago to try to find a weather forecast. The wind is going to dissipate, according to one station, which proceeded to play _Fire and Rain_ by James Taylor. 'I always thought that I'd see you again'...maybe I'm pathetically lonely, but those words began to rip me apart, and a tear escaped my left eye, further eroding the lines on my face that mark my life with you.

............................................................................................................

Last night you said you'd always wanted to see this place, and Edge, Capitol Reef is so...you. And very butch for a national park, I might add. Tourist season must be subsiding; hardly any are here, thankfully. For the last dozen miles, I've been confronted with vast rock formations reminiscent of tanks, battleships, and aircraft carriers, toppled and corroded by eons of erosion. My imagination sees the park as a crumbling layer cake: gold, orange, gray, pink, and brown. The world's history is written on the naked stripes of sandstone; this is what time looks like. And it's as if God had asked all curious boys and girls, 'Do you want to see what's hidden underground? I'll lift this corner here and show you.' All of this is enveloped in a profound, interminable silence. You're going to love it.

............................................................................................................

I can't get over it--no one is here, and I believe I am the sole occupant of the second floor of the Days Inn. From what I've gathered, there are no major towns nearby capitalizing on the park. Whoever knows about Capitol Reef is wisely keeping that information a secret. I'd certainly never heard of the park until yesterday, and am I even the slightest bit surprised that you know about this place? Not at all.

I'm watching the sun drop from the sky in sheer exhaustion after providing the west with another scalding afternoon. The wind lies dormant as well, and the dry, thin air reclines on a skyline clearly drawn by an alcoholic. I've rarely seen a sky or anything else this blue, this undiluted cobalt blue.

You will be here tomorrow.

I'm tired of being the kind of person who regularly hears the words, 'I can't stay mad at you.' Why do I put the people I love in a position to say that in the first place?

When you kissed me in that empty room, my neck snapped back and I saw a white flash as I burned, a man in the electric chair. That initial kiss was the necessary slap in the face you administered to your hysterical friend, only it was infinitely more pleasurable, and as you kissed me again everything faded until only the two of us remained. I heard the muffled noises one hears while under water; the sound of my own breathing came sharply into focus. Gradually the rest of my senses returned as I began to echo your kisses and recognize the intelligence of your hands.

Our mouths have been in close proximity for years, but what a difference that one inch of space makes. And this wasn't for the amusement of others; this wasn't drunken idiocy. This was your hand in my hair, holding my head in place, this was your tongue embracing mine, this was me dropping my keys, this was a metallic click as you stumbled back to lock the door.

My stunned fingers came back to life one by one, seeking the body of my twin brother, my complement, my savior, whose skin was always mine to touch, but never in this way. Affection, yes, but lust, no...then one terrifying word repeated itself in my mind: yes. As you bent your head to kiss my neck, my eyes opened. Through the white haze I saw the clock on the wall, 1234. I pushed you away with the other terrifying word--no--and then I left for Chicago. I am so sorry.

I'm waiting. I'm sure you'll be able to guess my check-in name. Reg Alison. God help me, I love you both.


	5. Twelve/Charms/Galaxy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A jaunty hoist of the corndog to all who have followed my story to this, the conclusion. Things will get complicated, format-wise, and I thank you in advance for your patience. At one point two recorders will be operating simultaneously. I will indicate any change in recorded voices with double dotted lines, like so:  
> ..................................................  
> ..................................................  
> And once our heroes are together at last, I will attempt to make it brutally obvious as to who is speaking. If there is any question, please assume that Edge is the intelligent, long-suffering, cool one and Bono is...you know how he is. 
> 
> Note: I've been having trouble with italics. The Neruda poems do not want them. I don't know.  
> Note: It's going to seem like this chapter is HUGE if you look at the little bar on the side, but the last half of this is...you'll see. It's not dense like the rest.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has told me they remembered and missed this story, and thanks to the newbies who are reading it and/or commenting for the first time (you are blowing me away, and it means so much). To the former, please know that I've changed the ending a bit, hopefully for the better. There's more to it, anyway. In my later stories, my Bono and Edge turned out to be real talkers, let's say, and I've injected some of that into Monarch. The original came in for a landing much too quickly, and it had been bothering me. For fifteen years. <3

**Chapter 12: Twelve.**

Test, test. Good.

Bono. I'm driving a silver Lexus ES 300 on Highway 14 east of Cedar City, en route to Capitol Reef. My roundabout itinerary is in the shape of a question mark. And you know what they say: the shortest distance between two points is always a question mark. It's going to be one national park, mountain range, and forest after another today. My guidebook says this is one of the most beautiful drives in the southwest. This car is so cool.

I promised I would call you...

.........................................................................................................

Bono.

You know how brutal it is to follow the sun across seven time zones.

Yes. I spent the night in Cedar City, the town with the closest airport. Now I'm facing about six hours of driving, but it's supposed to be pretty scenic.

Late afternoon, early evening.

Sounds classy.

Do they have those?

I took your advice and bought a recorder.

I'm not exactly comfortable listening to the sound of my own voice.

That makes sense.

You know I'd do anything for you.

Sure, B.

Yes?

I love yours, too. Don't forget to put on some sunscreen today.

Okay, I'll call you later.

................................................................................................

I'm sure you're right about the recorder. I've been held hostage by my thoughts and looking for any excuse to be alone after you left. Obviously I couldn't talk with anyone, and Ali and Morleigh are so trusting--can you believe this? I told them you had called me and asked me to join you. I said you were feeling better, and it sounded like you were finally starting to relax. Morleigh urged me to go, saying it looked like I could use a rest myself. And Ali said she'd feel better if you weren't alone, Bono.

So that's been my week.

I still can't believe I'm here. We were in the studio, recording, or at least attempting to record, and if you would have told me that in a week's time I'd be driving up a steep, tree-lined mountain road in southern Utah to find you in an obscure desert location...it's just unreal. And what is going to happen once I find you?

Climbing higher now. The road is a progression of switchbacks and hairpin turns that must be taken slowly, but the view is fantastic and goes on for miles. All of this is leading up to something. Cedar Breaks National Monument is at the top. I read about it on the plane. It's a sort of amphitheater, three miles wide and a half-mile deep, cut into the landscape.

......................................................................................................

I've always been amazed by your quick wit, your charisma, your timing. I'm sure you were the kind of boy who used every crayon in the box when he drew a tree, a boy who knew the difference between burnt sienna and raw umber. You would know how to describe what I'm seeing. Here I stand at the rim of Cedar Breaks, from the cheap seats of the amphitheater, looking down into a deep gash, an open wound of exposed sandstone formations in red, orange, and white. It's like coral or burning embers--yes--that's better. Towers that look like church spires are growing from the floor of this massive crater. The pine trees and junipers trapped in the fiery pit don't seem green. It's as if they were dipped in a harsh blue dye. Very impressive.

Alright. If I can't dazzle you with poetry, I can always blind you with science. Near me is an ancient bristlecone pine tree, the earth's oldest living inhabitant, able to exist where no other plants wish to live. It was a seedling when the pyramids were built, and it was mature in the time of Christ. Each needle is older than U2. Some of these trees can live as long as four thousand years, and they remain standing for hundreds of years after they die. The tree is small and its trunk is so twisted and gnarled it hurts to look at it.

............................................................................

The rhythm of this alpine road, its curves swinging gently back and forth, is so peaceful. It's like resting in a hammock. I should get some coffee, but there's no place to stop for miles. The scenery couldn't be lovelier--high open meadows, aspen groves. Do you remember when I told you that an aspen grove is in fact one organism? I've always liked that idea.

Larry, Adam, and I watched a tape of your _Oprah_ appearance a few days ago. We had nothing better to do. They thought you came across as gloomy and insufferable, or at the very least in need of sleep. I don't know if they were right or not; I wasn't really listening. I've heard your statistics a thousand times, and that seemed to be all you were doing, just reciting data, with the occasional naughty aside.

So instead I studied you. There's something about the way you sit in a chair, that casual yet elegant slump. I watched the gears of your mind shifting as you listened and saw the telltale sparkle in your eyes when an amusing reply dawned upon you, noticeable even behind blue glass and a film of insomnia. I saw you fiddle with the sleeves of your jacket as you addressed the ceiling. I heard your voice, too inherently flirtatious to be described as truly masculine, and while I wasn't hearing anything you said, whenever the word 'no' crossed your lips I winced.

Other times I simply watched your mouth and those two lines in your neck, and I hoped that you were alright wherever you were.

................................................................

You're the Bible expert. What kind of name is 'Panguitch'? Is it Biblical? That's where I had lunch, at the Flying M restaurant in the tiny town of Panguitch, Utah.

I blended in with a delegation of bikers and ate something covered with gravy. Decent coffee. Two and a half stars. The colorful paper placemat indicated that there is much to do in nearby Bryce Canyon National Park. How about this: the next time you decide to get lost in North America following a disturbing episode with me, let's meet at Bryce Canyon and sort things out.

Panguitch...if panic and anguish had a child. Hey, I'm glad I recorded that; it's mine and you're not stealing it. Let's name our first child Panguitch, B.

I'm stopping at Bryce. It won't take too long.

..................................................................

Bryce is not busy today, so I was allowed to drive in, rather than take the shuttle bus. If I couldn't drive I probably would have abandoned the whole idea, which would have been a shame. This is something special, Bono. It's kind of like Cedar Breaks, but much more delicate. Lacy even. I'm looking down into another great abyss, populated by blazing spires, fins, arches, and mazes. I'm seeing orange guitar necks and totem poles, carved by wind and water. These thin, elongated hoodoos--it's like looking in a mirror.

Okay, here. I'm being accosted by chipmunks wanting snacks. They're almost as cute as you are when you want snacks.

.......................................................................

I might as well be driving on the surface of the Mars, or...the moon, I don't know. I've never seen a landscape so foreign, this ocean of rock near Escalante. That will be the name of our second child, incidentally. I've been driving for miles on this amazing road that runs over immense platforms and into deep crevices, my mouth wide open the whole time. Buttes, plateaus, pinnacles, mesas--those geography terms I could scarcely visualize in school--I'm seeing them all at once. I'm not going to try to describe it. I don't think you could either. I am sorely tempted to pull over to hunt for fossils and add to my childhood collection of rocks, but to do so would be illegal, since this is a national monument just like everything else down here.

I'm glad I don't have a camera. Back at Bryce I saw a group of tourists, all with some kind of video device, and they rarely looked away from their tiny screens, preferring to view the park through a two-inch window. And I know I'd be doing the same thing, trying to frame each shot perfectly, zooming in and out. That's not how this country should be seen.

You asked me why I wanted to meet you in Capitol Reef and not somewhere easier, like Salt Lake City, which would have made more sense. I wanted us to go someplace pure and unaffected by daily trivialities. Someplace that held beautiful secrets we could call our own. I wanted to watch you react to a setting you'd never seen before, responding as a child would. I think what I want you to realize the most is that you're not carrying the weight of the world. The world is carrying you. And you have me.

Capitol Reef is a place where poets and scientists alike are equally moved. Maybe we could write a song.

............................................................................................................

We talked about this two days ago, but I want to say it again: I didn't see it coming either. Something inside of me took over and there I was, kissing you, really kissing you. I take full responsibility for starting that, but in some odd way I don't. Now I'm surprised that it had not happened years ago. It's as if we were resisting gravity all these years. The entire event couldn't have lasted more than a minute, but that minute has given my mind enough material to sort through for days. The scratching sound your watch made as it snagged my shirt. The nail of your left index finger sliding down my neck. The frayed seam of a back pocket I had noticed that morning. 

The way your tongue tasted like oranges.

 

**Chapter 13: Charms.**

*

*

*

Hello?

Good morning, Edge! How was your flight?

You poor thing. Did you get any sleep?

This place is beyond description. I can't wait for you to see it. When will you arrive?

I'm at the Days Inn on Highway...let's see...24. Room 222.

It's the Presidential Suite.

No, I'm joking. They don't have those.

Oh good. It's helped me figure out a few things. I think you'll like it.

You don't even have to play it back. It's the process...it's like talking to someone in the dark. You can't see each other, so you become more candid, somehow.

It's like confession.

Thank you for doing this for me.

I can't wait to see you. Call me when you're almost here, okay?

And Edge?

I love the sound of your voice. I always have.

Yes mother.

Bye Edge.

............................................................................................................

I suppose I should get out of this bed. Our bed. Oh my god.

This is happening.

Our chamber could not be more generic. Soon you will be able to feast your eyes on walls the color of butter, a sad grouping of table and chairs, brown industrial carpeting, a sort of non-closet, a weird exposed sink area, and a Lilliputian bathroom. The bed...will do. Hate the bedspread, which in no way relates to the curtains, and why the technical drawings of ships? Oh, because we're in the desert; now I understand.

Sunscreen--if you say so, Edge.

............................................................................................................

I followed the signs and drove to the visitor center--proud of this--and was provided with a map and park literature. I will present the information to you later and you can give me a general idea of what it says. It is boring and contains an abundance of geological terminology.

In the midst of all these cliffs is a green orchard oasis and a merry little river. I'm certain this river is responsible for all the spectacular scenery. Castles, temples, domes, sheer cliffs, improbable formations...I swear I saw a giant white breast on the way over. I paid one dollar and was able to pick as many gorgeous apricots as I wanted right off the trees. If you're nice to me later I'll feed you one.

I'm sitting in the deep blue shadow of the largest oak tree I've ever seen. Its trunk is the size of...two Trabants, easily, and it is topped with bizarre ropy vines and drooping limbs. I think I'll walk down one of the trails before the sun climbs much higher. Then I'll...oh! (Edge, a deer!)

............................................................................................................

How haunting. A sign here says the Fremont Indians carved petroglyphs onto these sheer cliff walls. They lived here for centuries then mysteriously disappeared in 1300 AD. There are many depictions of broad-shouldered stick figures with dangling arms and strange hats. Small animals litter the spaces between them. I wonder why they left.

A ridiculous little bird landed on the rocks beside me a moment ago. It must have been a male, with vivid yellow and black plumage, crowned with a cap of Chinese red. He saw me and flew away, and in his wake I watched miniscule rock fragments sift down to my shoes.

............................................................................................................

I want you to see this tomorrow. I'm walking down a gravelly path that winds through a close jumble of polished rock walls as tall as city buildings. The colors of the rocks shift continuously. You've got the usual earth tones with hints of yellow and violet, and sometimes stripes of black drip down from above. They call this passageway a wash, and when it rains water comes racing through this space. I've seen signatures of explorers and pioneers etched upon these walls, with dates like 1853, 1875. It is so quiet. All I can hear is the crunch of my shoes on rocks and sand and my own breathing, and once again I feel very small. As I talk into this recorder, my words ricochet off the surface of the walls, as if the rocks were playing a game with my thoughts.

Look--a monarch has landed on a cactus flower near my feet, Edge. Hello, love. She's on her way to Mexico.

............................................................................................................

That will be $16.42, please. Oh my...(Bono?)

Yes, discretion, good. Thank you, 'Lex.'

What are you...wow...hi! This is so weird... I saw you on _Oprah_ last week--really admire what you're doing for Africa. Wow.

You do?

Oh sure! All your fans--we're behind you. You didn't think we were?

Sometimes it's hard to know.

Really? You've opened a lot of eyes. We're, you know, proud of you!

Ahh, how kind of you to say so. Ehm, I have a question.

Ask!

Do you have anything more...festive...than this?

I'm afraid not. It's a dry county. Sorry.

I understand. I sort of understand.

Yeah. I know. Thank you...thank you for your music.

You're very welcome, mate.

............................................................................................................

I hope young Lex wasn't studying my purchases too carefully. One of the items took me back to that bashful day when I bought condoms for the first time. I mean, you can use it for other things, but..I'm stunned that they even stocked the article in question. The pharmacy section of the store was a single shelf, about three feet across. But there it was. I very much doubt we'll even need it, but if I've learned anything from you over two decades of traveling together, it's that one should be prepared for anything. Repeat: very much doubt. That's all I'm going to say, Edge.

And why did I decide to buy this accursed cereal? I'm back at the peaceful oasis, hat on head, attempting to read as I await your call. But the cereal, which I am eating right out of the box, is distracting me. You see, the little marshmallow bits are truly delicious, but they are shamefully outnumbered by the hateful brown pieces. To get to the good parts one must weed through the bad parts, and this process is keeping me from my reading. But I can't stop.

.........................................................................................................  
..........................................................................................................

Bono, I'm stopping at a rock shop near Escalante. Formations that look like petrified, painted snow drifts surround the area, but I must admit that my eyes are starting to become fatigued. It is otherworldly here and every mile is stunning, but there's too much to see, too much information to process. I need a rest.

............................................................................................................

Excuse me, sir, do you have any trilobites?

Sure do! Big box of 'em over there.

Thanks.

How ya like Utah?

Absolutely spectacular.

It'd be as big as Texas if you could iron it flat.

I believe that. How old are these?

You're lookin' at half a billion years, sittin' right there in your hand.

I'll take two.

Thirty bucks, friend.

Amazing. Thanks.

............................................................................................................

Hello, Bono.

I'll be there in fifty minutes. Five-zero.

I sound tired because I am tired. But it's so wonderful out here. I bought a gift for you.

Five gifts?

All right, I'll see you soon.

 

**Chapter 14: Galaxy.**

I think I'm getting closer. That could be the tropic shale formation--I’ve read about this. It’s a fleet of hostile ramparts, all a muted yellow-gray. It goes on for miles and miles. No plants can grow here because the shale contains a witches' brew of chemicals inhospitable to vegetation. A terrible place to be lost. I hope you remembered to take along some water today, B.

............................................................................................................

A dramatic thunderstorm is rolling in from the west. This is the season for it.

Oh Bono, this is...nothing could have prepared me for this. Anvil-topped clouds are challenging the landscape to a beauty contest I would not wish to judge. The setting sun is slinking beneath the clouds. It's saturating the towering red monoliths with golden light and casting diagonal purple shadows. I knew this place was going to be breathtaking but...

My god, have you ever seen anything so unforgettable your weary eyes were moved to tears?

And my hands are cold. It's like I'm meeting you for the first time. What an exotic creature you were to me then. The very features of your face competed with each other for the attention of anyone you encountered. Your mouth fascinated me. You had such girlish lips, never still, constantly changing. When you sang, your open mouth issued forth these...sounds...an angel was trapped inside your body, crying to be set free. As the years have passed the angel has decided that it's probably better to sit back and enjoy the ride.

As I have.

I think I focused on your mouth first because your eyes were a vortex of such intensity. They still are. When you explain your visions and schemes, your eyes dance over the invisible blueprints of ideas you see in the sky. I remember wishing I could enter the carnival-like atmosphere of your mind and sit at the messy desk of a genius who somehow knew where everything was. Iridescent blue eyes lit from within by perpetual light bulbs...I'm sure I was in love with you even then.

............................................................................................................  
............................................................................................................

 

My hair looks like a haunted house. God, Edge, what do you see in me? This beak of a nose, slightly sunburned; this condescending little mouth; these fun new lines...we all tease Larry for looking so young, but meanwhile you have quietly remained under the radar of time. You don't age either. It's patently unfair.

My eyes...well, at least they've still got it.

What's that? Thunder.

A pink sky...with blue clouds! I hope you're seeing this too, wherever you are. A storm must have arisen while I was in the shower. And it's at sunset, so the sky is rosy and mystical with sparkling strands of lightning.

This room. Yes, the scene is set for seduction...how shamefully ordinary. Still, who cares? You will be here soon, and I am wearing red, fidgeting. Such thrilling anticipation: I can't read, and I can't even watch the Weather Channel. Maybe I should go outside and run around the motel a few times.

No, the best thing I can do right now is to look at the sky.

............................................................................................................

Edge--you're here!

Bono...

Let me take your luggage--how are you?--did you see the storm?--isn't this place extraordinary? ...Hey, are you alright, Reg?

I am so exhausted.

I know exactly how you feel. You poor baby. That's good, lie down. You relax and look at the ceiling for a while. I did the same thing every night this week.

Nice room, B.

Nothing but the finest...are your hands tingling?

Kind of.

They're cold too. The things you do for me, driving all day...let me warm them up. Or would you like to sleep for a while?

Just give me thirty minutes...it's so good to see you, B.

Oh, you sleep now, Edge. When you wake up I'll have presents for you, okay?

Sure.

Want me to read some poetry to you?

Sure.

Excellent. Just close your eyes. Let's see...

_Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss,_  
What loneliness-in-motion, toward your company!  
Rolling with the rain we follow the tracks alone.  
In Taltal there is neither daybreak nor spring. 

_But you and I, love, we are together_  
From our clothes down to our roots:  
Together in the autumn, in water, in hips, until  
We can be alone together--only you, only me. 

_To think of the effort, that the current carried_  
So many stones, the delta of the Boroa water;  
To think that you and I, divided by trains and nations, 

_We had only to love one another:_  
With all the confusions, the men and the women,  
The earth that makes carnations rise, and makes them bloom! 

-oh, and this one-

_My love, I returned from travel and sorrow  
To your voice, to your hand flying on the guitar,_

Ahh. Sleep, love.

............................................................................................................

Mmmm.

Would you like some of my apricot? That's a good Edge.

Sorry I was so sleepy.

Oh no. It's fine. It gave me some time to study you.

I'm sure I must look dreadful, B.

Not in the slightest. And I propose a toast--take a plastic cup. To us.

What in god's name is this?

Welch's sparkling grape juice. Hilarious, no? It's the best I could do here.

I may die.

But aren't these apricots heavenly? I picked them myself, just for us.

How adorable. Did you have a little basket too?

You. Just for that, you're getting five presents.

From the master of excess...

Exactly. Open it. Now.

You're the boss...oh Bono. You have such unerringly good taste. A teddy bear Statue of Liberty. Weeping.

There's more!

I'm getting scared now. Oh my god.

Yes. A cherubic firefighter hugging the World Trade Center towers. Each sculpture was lovingly created by artisans using only the finest Iowa porcelain...hand-painted, signed, and numbered.

They come with certificates of authenticity, I hope.

Right there in the boxes.

A nice consideration for collectors such as myself.

Next!

Hmm, let's see here. A necklace?

It's the key to my...rental car. The Pontiac Grand Pricks. Replacement key, actually.

You locked your keys in the car?

Naturally. I thought you should wear it. I paid two hundred dollars for it.

Wow...in upmarket silvertone. I can see where all that money was spent. (You know that's not the correct pronunciation, don't you?)

News to me, Edge. And now this.

Oh...well this...I love. It's beautiful.

It's Navajo. Let me put it on your finger...see the letter B?

Well...yes. Bono. I don't know what to say.

And finally. You should have this.

An empty jar? With--what's that at the top?--was that some kind of chrysalis?

That was with me when I began to realize that...I'm in love with you.

Bono.

I’m fairly positive things have been going on behind the scenes for years.

Background processes. Theta waves.

What?

Never mind. God, just look at you, love.

‘Love.’ When you kissed me, it was right.

Bono...I...

Oh Edge, yes...

............................................................................................................

This will be so complicated.

I don't think we have a choice anymore, B. Take that off.

You’ve seen me like this, and I’ve seen you like that a million times.

And yet…

And yet.

I could eat you alive.

God knows I’d fucking let you.

............................................................................................................

I can’t believe I’m actually kissing you, here, like this. 

Do you like kissing a man, B?

I like kissing you.

As shattering as that first time was, this is even better.

It is. It feels so good.

Feel that.

Feel that.

Fuck.

............................................................................................................

Just so you know, Edge, I’m prepared for anything tonight. Anything.

You don’t say?

If you want to. Do you?

I could happily spend the entire night just working on this neck of yours, B.

I could get off on sucking your fingers, if you wanna know the truth.

Mmm, I could get off on you doing that, too. 

So you’re saying we should take our time.

This is the good part. Well, one of the good parts.

I wanna look at you from across the studio and imagine things you’ll do to me.

Oh, the things I’ll do to you, B.

............................................................................................................

Baby. Stay with me. We talked about them. 

I’m here.

We’re all smart people.

I know. Yes. I can’t go back to...not doing this. I know it.

So do I.

Yeah. Oh god.

............................................................................................................

Get on top of me. I just wanna feel...yeah.

Do you like that?

Yeah. 

Fuck.

Edge.

............................................................................................................

Little break. I’m so--

Same here.

Wow.

Baby. No one needs to know until we figure out what this is first.

Okay. But I forgot about the MP3 thing. This is probably being recorded.

Heh, I’m recording it, too.

Hello, listener.

Hope you’re enjoying our midlife crisis.

............................................................................................................

Seriously, let’s just fool around as if we were still in school. For now.

That’s good.

What would I have done with you when we were teenagers?

You know what? Let’s do all the things people assumed we were doing anyway. That’s fair game, Edge, and then we can…

Re-evaluate.

So what did people think I did with you?

Kissing. That’s just a given.

Lying in bed together, half-naked?

Another given. Boys will be boys. Even Morleigh thinks we’ve done this.

Your hands all over my ass…

Everybody wanted to have their hands all over your ass. Given.

Yeah? What else are you gonna give me, Edge?

This.

Fuck.

Baby…

I am so turned on right now.

Me, too.

What else?

You keep coming back to my hands. And the things they can do.

You don’t think everyone assumed we were--

Maybe not everyone. Just the imaginative ones. You know. Two friends leave the party together for ten minutes, and then they come back…

...blushing. Why didn’t we do that, Edge?

Maybe we should make up for lost time.

............................................................................................................

I can't imagine never kissing you again, now that…

I’ll never stop, baby

Oh god...your hands

Your eyes

That's right

All my life

Yes Edge

............................................................................................................

Couldn't stop thinking about

My face on your bare chest

Yes B

Your heart

Yes

My teeth

............................................................................................................

Just lie back, B

Oh

Greedy darling

Baby bird

Beautiful boy

More

Love

You could never hurt me

Never

Please

Yes love

Yes

............................................................................................................

You know.

I always have.

You know.

............................................................................................................

Sleep, love.

............................................................................................................

Edge, look.

Bono?

Out here on the balcony...oh. Look at you. The stars themselves are swooning.

Ahh, the stars.

That's what I wanted to show you. Sit next to me. That's a remarkable ring you're wearing.

Someone I love very much gave it to me. Oh, I almost forgot...

You? Forgot something?

I was distracted by your loveliness, B. Just a second. Got it.

(I love you.)

Here you go.

...How fantastic.

Enjoy.

Okay, what is this? A fossil? I feel like I should know what it is.

It's a trilobite.

Obviously.

They're primitive arthropods, like crustaceans, and they lived under the sea. They were extinct long before dinosaurs existed. That's the head, and all these things are legs. The fossil is half a billion years old.

My goodness.

I did some math.

I'm sure you did.

I want you to imagine a timeline.

Done.

Your life, on that line, is less than one quarter of an inch.

Yes.

A little more than one inch equals...America, roughly.

Good.

The trilobite, on that timeline, is twenty miles away.

You're kidding.

We're on this earth for a very short time. That's what this place has taught me.

I love you, Edge. Kiss me.

............................................................................................................

I've never seen so many stars. Teach me the constellations sometime?

Absolutely.

It's a shame about all that pollution, though. Who do I know...Orrin Hatch...?

What pollution, Bono?

That big white streak across the sky, see it?

Heh.

...What?

That's not pollution. That's the Milky Way.

Oh. Of course.

That's the galaxy we call home.

Wow.

Yeah.

It’s beautiful. 

............................................................................................................

You’re my home, Edge.

Welcome home, B.


End file.
